


Dead girls need no privacy

by blackmushroom



Category: Red Velvet (K-pop Band)
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, F/F, Grief/Mourning, Minor Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-21
Updated: 2020-11-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:36:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27648977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackmushroom/pseuds/blackmushroom
Summary: A funeral without a body is already painful enough, being the single attendee only drives the point home.
Relationships: Kang Seulgi/Son Seungwan | Wendy
Comments: 6
Kudos: 26





	Dead girls need no privacy

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is a result of Chris (@ANTAGONlSTlC)'s wonderful mind and their willingness to share one of their prompts with me. This was a great challenge and I do hope it lives up to your expectations.
> 
> My amazing beta reader Carolina (@thekpopone), thank you for being the best <3
> 
> \-----------
> 
> This fic deals with heavy topics, be mindful of your wellbeing while reading it. There are (very) brief mentions of drug addiction, indirect and somewhat uninteded self-harm and an unadvised disrespect towards mental health professionals.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.

A grandfather clock is probably the last thing you expect in a funeral home. And yet here it stands in the office, dark and grandiose, counting the seconds as several brochures are spread out on the table offering different packages with the most annoying names you can imagine. "Love Forever", "From here on out", "Always in our minds". There's certainly money to be made if a career change is in order for Wendy. 

Opposite to her sits a smiling man, whatever remaining hair slick back with an unnecessary amount of gel. The smell of cologne around him is so strong it causes the other employer to twitch her nose during her brief entrance to the room in order to retrieve his empty cup of coffee. He watches her until the door clicks shut and turns his attention back to the woman in front of him, his smile slowly disappearing as a long silence stretches between them. It causes him to dry his increasingly sweaty hands on his pants, eventually coughing in a poor attempt of initiating a conversation, even though the repetitive noise of the clock makes it impossible for anyone to break out of their thought patterns, which might be intentional if you consider casket prices.

Planning a funeral isn't really a skill they teach you in school. Or college, for that matter. You usually rely on older family members who might have learned it from whoever's still alive one or two generations above. That's what's expected, that's how nature goes, people with more experience relieve you from the burden and support each other through one of the most difficult times one can experience during their life. Yet there’s no one by Wendy’s side to explain what’s supposed to happen. If there’s any need for music, for a priest to lead the ceremony, whether a ceremony is even needed. Are carnations a good option for a reception? They do mean love. Should there be a reception? 

For whom?

There’s no one by Wendy’s side and she’s got to get used to that since it’s on her. She points at one of the more simple packages and the worker lets out a sigh of relief when she gets up to leave. There has never been any mention of family through the years and unless a random twice removed cousin, whatever those are, suddenly shows up to cry their sorrows and maybe stake a claim to their money, there’s no need for flourish, not that there would be anyway. A funeral without a body is already painful enough, being the single attendee only drives the point home, even if Wendy had made sure no one would find out about it.

On day two the fan blades haphazardly creak as they move, the decoration at the distant wall fluttering calmly. Wendy stares at the fan, her wandering mind concocting the scenery of the object falling on top of someone. That would be morbid. Ironic too? Maybe. She clicks her tongue and tries to remember who had recommended this place to her, since apparently it’s mandatory to have at least one object always making noise in each room. She tries to maintain the little patience she still has even when experiencing all of their insistent loudness, thinking whether this is part of the package deal she inadvertently signed up for. They slowly drive people insane and that's how they get more clients. Ok, definitely morbid. 

After three and a half hours of begrudgingly sitting by herself at the empty casket reception, mulling over every single topic there is besides the idea of death, she reaches to a conclusion: the internet is exceedingly dumb. Dare she say, this situation in particular is at least top 3 of the dumbest things the online community has accomplished, kudos to the participants. An eccentric rich person reaching out and donating their money for those who are less fortunate is usually a reason for people to celebrate, except this time Wendy hadn’t been really on board with their donation going directly to a missing person’s funeral. Even if said missing person had been in a seemingly deadly accident, there was still no body.

She had accepted to go through with the funeral to avoid having the mysterious rich person bother her with messages and calls, but if it was up to her, Wendy would actually be at home going through the news clippings and trying to gather any information she might have missed (there's none). 

The lone woman grabs her purse, the unopened water bottle and the large printed picture of her missing girlfriend from the stand next to the entrance and heads to her car, not bothering to see if any employees are around to lock the door.

The alarm beeps and she gets in, sitting in silence inside the car for a few seconds. It feels like she’s barely holding on, threading between apathy and rage in a daily metaphorical flip of a coin, courtesy of her brain. Right now, for instance, she’s absolutely seething as she thinks of her current circumstances, about how completely useless the police are being, about how no one seems to care anymore, about how the news doesn't run the story and has moved on to other things, other people, new ways to grab attention. They get to pat themselves on the back and consider it a job well done, the world moves on as it always does, unaffected and uncaring, but Wendy is still there and she is still alone at the end of the day. Tears fill her eyes and she can feel her chest tightening, the idea of holding onto hope slowly dissipating as she struggles to keep her head above the water when sinking is so easy and no one is around to push her back up. She punches the steering wheel hard, enough to hurt her hand, and releases a pained scream as frustration bubbles out until she can feel her throat burning, until she can pretend to have any semblance of control over anything. She stomps her feet repeatedly, the pent up emotions taking over until her voice falters and she unclenches her jaw. Her breath is labored when she opens her eyes and willingly turns her expression neutral once more. Wendy drives to her house with no music playing, the playlists all seem to be tainted with memories.

Her arrival doesn’t take long, about fifteen minutes with minimal traffic, and there’s some relief in the universe taking pity on her deplorable state. It’s unusual to be home in the afternoon, but she had been sent home from work for the week after her boss found out about the funeral through one of her coworkers, which he refused to name in fear of retaliation for both of them. Wendy’s default expression had turned a bit intense, to put it kindly, the past few months and no one wanted to risk it, even if she hadn’t been known to ever raise her voice or scowl at anyone. The time off does give her some time to try to sleep and maybe write a few obscene, completely anonymous, emails to the police force as a cathartic release after dealing with their incompetence. 

She’s mentally crafting quite the inventive curse words when she walks past her apartment’s letter box, having to actually take a step back when she notices there’s a letter slotted halfway in what is supposed to be her apartment’s individual box. Wendy frowns and carefully lifts the paper in order to confirm the number written as her own. She picks it up to check for any information, but it doesn't have a sender, which is all the more reason to think it might be for someone else. When the short woman turns it over it says in clean handwriting "Apartment 202", her number, plus the letter isn’t sealed and looks a bit crumpled after being partially shoved, having some weight to it. Curiosity wins over and she opens the envelope, finding a bulky, old looking key and a small paper containing an address. It's clear why the letter doesn’t fit the slot. The confused woman looks around half expecting someone to jump out and announce their clever prank, even if she doesn’t get it at all, and yet the entrance hall remains empty for the minute she stands there. 

She unlocks the letter box to see if there’s anything different inside, but it only contains a leaflet for a new pizza place opening down the street and an electricity bill that is once again considerably lower than what it used to be. Wendy shoves everything into her coat’s pocket and heads to the elevator.

There's a microwave ding accompanied by a delicious smell wafting the kitchen, the first actual meal in three days for Wendy after a diet of pringles for lunch and coffee for dinner. She inhales deeply and can't help but smile as she thinks of all the times they had ordered the dish, nights filled with laughter, warmth, stolen kisses and cuddling. The television's loud ad for a new flavor of energy drink rips her back to reality, an empty room with dimmed lights and a cold couch that seems to dip too little nowadays. The food lasts another day in the fridge. 

_____________________________________________________________________

On saturday Wendy decides she needs to do her laundry, even if she has spent most of the week wearing only a pair of comfortable sweatpants and warm hoodie from a college that isn't hers. She picks up her clothes from the hamper and grabs the blanket she is wrapped in whenever she’s using the coffee table for her investigation.

The aforementioned table had served its original purpose less and less ever since she started gathering all the information she could find about her girlfriend’s disappearance. It had been four months since she left to get some things from the supermarket and didn’t come back. The car was found a couple of days later wrecked in a ditch with her wallet and phone still there, but no body or blood. So now, instead of possibly tacky decoration or the casual bill, it constantly houses a laptop, stacks of newspaper clippings and any police information she can get her hands on spread out, organized by how relevant it is to her current leading narrative.

It's probably why her friends had slowly given up on trying to talk to her, the obsession with trying to find out through her own investigation taking quite the toll on their friendship. Closer friends resorted to keep an eye on her through occasional texting and offers to visit, even if they were shut down every time they brought up going out together. Jieun, her best friend, still tries her hardest, having settled for an unspoken agreement between them where Wendy was to reach out whenever she felt like she would be able to.

The short woman walks by the table and takes a look at the current set on display, puckering her lips deep in thought. She shrugs and heads to the laundry machine, dumping her things into the washer and setting everything up for a small load. Perhaps a tad too small. On a quest to find more items, she walks back to the apartment entrance to look for her brown coat, a winter favorite, when she feels the extra bulk in one of the pockets after picking it up. There, safely tucked (as most of her things are), lays the envelope with the key. 

They get transferred to the dining table and she continues her task, returning to it when the machine whirrs into life. 

It takes one glance to the empty room before Wendy decides to take a walk, which promptly turns into a drive when she bothers to input the unknown address on her phone.

Even though she can hear the instructions, Wendy leans against the window as she drives, squinting to see the numbers on the houses. It's a distant neighborhood filled with older, grandiose buildings, so it's hard to find anyone on the streets even on a weekend. After a few more minutes the robotic GPS voice finally announces the arrival right in front of a dark brown, two stories high somewhat narrow house. The front lawn is overtaken by weeds and bushes growing in every direction, the very definition of abandoned popping up in Wendy's brain, and somehow she still feels like she's intruding just by being there.

Just to be safe, she parks on the other side of the street and sits in the car waiting for reason to return to her exhausted body after this apparent lapse in judgement, the one responsible for her impromptu journey to a random house on a whim. For a couple of minutes she sits in silence, staring at the house to see if there's any movement inside the house, anything that would help make more sense of the situation. After that the restlessness grows, nothing but the sound of her own nails tapping against the steering wheel, which does little to dissuade her next steps. 

Wendy walks to the entrance, stepping over some flowers that insist on growing through the cracks on the walkway. Reaching the door, her hand hangs in the air for a few seconds as she looks for anything to ring, eventually giving up and settling for knocking even if apparently there's no one to answer. She waits expectantly, fidgeting with her nails while the silence stretches on. The neighboring houses have enough distance between them to make sure no one needs to interact unless they absolutely desire to do so and she's thankful for that, because it offers enough cover to reach into her purse and grab the key with minimal shaking. Wendy takes a big breath and slots it in the hole, turning to unlock the front door. She pushes it open and... It doesn't move. A frown takes over her features and she impatiently turns it a few times, a repetitive sound of locking and unlocking clear in the stillness of her surroundings, but the door still doesn't budge. The small woman, now resolute in achieving her goal, goes into a stance and pushes against it with her shoulder, making the heavy door creak slightly after barely moving an inch. She huffs and tries using more force, practically leaning against it, when it finally gives way and she practically stumbles inside, the stale smell reaching her nose right away. 

After closing the door, the place feels stuffy enough for Wendy to unwrap the scarf on her neck, tying it carefully on her purse strap in order not to lose it. She tugs on it to make sure it’s tight, nodding in approval, and takes her first glance around.

It doesn’t take long to realize the inside is absolutely gorgeous, perfectly encapsulating the bygone era. The house has a high ceiling and huge windows, giving the feeling it's bigger on the inside, and everything looks like it's been carefully picked in order to match, down to the intricate details carved on the doorknobs and the stair bannister right by the entryway, which she doesn’t even need to get close to see because the inside of the house is that bright. Wait. The inside is bright. Wendy looks around in panic, confusion taking over her because even though the wooden three panel windows are amazing, they’re mostly covered and only allow slivers of light to come through. It's when she looks up that her nervousness subdues, finding a beautiful solarium that allows the natural light to pour inside the room.

Walking further in, there are sheets over some pieces of furniture and the window sills have a thick layer of dust covering them so it's natural to gather that the house has been closed off for quite a while, which provides a bit more courage for her to look around. Whoever built it had an eye for detail and was able to put together functionality and charm, making it easy for her to paint a vivid image in her mind. Coming home from work, removing her coat and gloves to hang them by the entrance and lighting the fireplace in order to make everything cozy while she heads upstairs. She bets there's a bathtub on the main bedroom, probably cast iron with a traditional double-ended clawfoot, it feels like the sort of house that must have one. And it’s big, big enough for two people to get in and Wendy can see herself taking a nice relaxing bath with- no one.

She clings to her bag and moves further along, lifting one of the sheets every now and then to inspect the secrets around. The furniture is clearly old and hasn't been used in maybe decades, yet they hold up beautifully with the high quality wood and leather, giving the house a warm and comfortable interior. There are all sorts of paintings and framed drawings on the walls, the patterns and style repeating themselves enough for her to gather that they’re likely from the same artist.

Wendy doesn’t know why she wants to see the main bedroom, but she feels like she can’t leave the house before doing it. The woman makes her way back to the entrance and stops by the stairs, taking a big breath before venturing into the unknown area. She's carefully peeking out the window right next to the door when there’s a loud sound outside. It doesn’t last more than a second and before even realizing the woman is on the second floor leaning against the wall out of sight and her heart is hammering against her chest. Even though she’s out of breath - damn those stairs - she tries her best to breathe through her nose in order to reduce any noise as she checks the upstairs foyer window, finding a huge motorcycle making their way down the street. She’s practically wrapped in the curtain hiding when it brushes her face, triggering a sneeze so loud any cover she had possibly built up is gone.

Her stealthy mission is done for, she gathers as she brushes the dust off her clothes, but her objective still feels incomplete. The woman zeroes in on a door down the corridor on the left, something inside her mind telling her that this is where she wants to go. The door creaks as it opens the single inch she’s brave enough to push, though it soon becomes clear there’s no way to see anything. Another inch is opened and she unceremoniously squishes her cheek against the door, laying her eyes on the huge bed against the wall, an ornate four-poster double bed with a wooden panel. It feels like it has been plucked directly from her dreams and placed here specifically for her to find, which once again brings the question of who might be the house owner she’s currently breaking and entering. Well, it’s not really breaking if there’s a key put into her possession, but definitely entering and snooping through. From the building itself to the decor and furniture, all she wants is to experience how it feels to live here and bring the place back to life. There’s a sad smile on the woman’s lips as she thinks of this, understanding how unattainable yet another idea of hers is and she plays with the ring hanging from the necklace she’s wearing as she goes around the room.

Not one to trigger an allergy attack, she skips on opening the drawers and turns to leave the room, getting her foot caught on something and ungracefully landing on the floor with her knees and hands bracing the impact. She hisses at the stinging feeling and looks back ready to fight the inanimate object when she realizes there’s nothing but the wooden floor in her field of view. The closed fists are dropped in defeat, her body hunching over with tiredness, when she spots one of the wooden boards slightly bent with its corner raised, almost like it doesn’t fit. Wendy, not in the mood to fight the floor, lifts it in order to put it back in place when she sees there’s something underneath, curiosity gets the best of her and she turns on her phone’s flashlight to check, finding several books. 

She bites her lip while staring at them, struggling to find cons to add to her list when she’s already knee deep in snooping around a stranger’s house. A gnawing thought at the back of her mind makes an appearance once more, the very same that has willed her entry into the house, that has made her experience a moment in time that belongs to someone else, something that now tells her to grab the books carefully stashed away under the loose floorboard.

Wendy rolls her sleeves up and reaches into the small space, raising a brow when she keeps pulling the books out like a weird literary magician. It had been hard to notice how many there were at first with the lack of light and how snug they fit inside, so when they surround her on the floor there’s an overwhelming sensation growing inside. Luckily, they’re numbered - that’s how Wendy finds out there are nine of them - so she does some slight reorganizing to display them like a deck of cards, easing her decision to start. She picks up the first one and tries brushing some of the dust away from the leather cover, nothing on it besides the number.

The pages are yellow due to time, but that’s the only way to tell this isn’t new since it’s so well kept. Wendy is practically shaking with excitement, just dying to find out what the secret books are and what story they tell, maybe even find out who the owner of the house is. 

She opens the first page and her smile instantly drops from her face as she stares at the words. It’s in korean, the whole diary is written in korean no matter how many pages she flips through. The mystery, the plans, all the build up destroyed by a different alphabet, her korean skills currently reduced to asking if someone has eaten and apologizing, all the topics she’d graciously cover when talking to her grandmother. Damn her rebellious phase for deciding she didn’t need to learn the language as a kid. She sure as hell won’t ask for one of her mother’s old friends for a translation. 

She skims over it once more just to make sure there’s nothing in another language, a date, a name, maybe a lengthy entry containing a family tree and their current addresses, you know, the usual, and eventually gets to the end of it. Even if there was any information written along the diary, it’s not like she’d understand who or what it’s about. Nevertheless, Wendy picks up the second volume and the same apprehension takes over her, a tickling sensation that starts on the back of her neck and runs down her arms, the feeling that this diary will have answers to questions she doesn’t even have yet and it’s almost gentle the way she opens the cover to tentatively check, as if not to disturb the content, waiting for some twist of events. Once more, apparently in the same handwriting, are several entries written in the foreign language.

The short woman rolls her eyes and angrily throws the book to the side, the frustration once more bubbling up. And it’s in an almost cartoon-like manner that a single piece of paper flies from where it was tucked inside the diary, dancing all the way to the floor in the longest three seconds anyone can experience, and slips between the cracks. That’s when she throws herself to try and grab it, pinching just its corner with a triumphant smile and carefully pulling it back. It’s a beautiful sketch of a dog, the details making it look so realistic it feels like she’s holding a photograph. A smile instantly forms on her face as she thinks of Seulgi. Her currently-missing-recently-buried-but-not-really girlfriend Seulgi. Artistic, heart of gold and fueled by a fiery passion Seulgi. Wendy almost laughs at her insanity, it doesn’t matter how long it’s been she will still grasp at straws no matter how stupid or minimal the connection is. 

Still, it’s this insignificant relation that compels her to gather the rest of the diaries, stacking them in groups so she won’t need to keep going up and down the stairs. No one seems to have been to the house in years and that’s all the reasoning she allows herself to conjure while she loads them all into her car’s trunk. The adrenaline from actually robbing someone’s property dies down during the drive home and she has to stop at a gas station to reconsider just what in the actual hell is happening. After an intense staring battle with the dashboard to gather her thoughts, she reasons the police probably won’t arrest her over books that have been left behind in an old house. Keyword probably.

_____________________________________________________________________

It takes four days for Wendy to actually get them out of her car. By now the guilt no longer makes her jump every time someone asks for her at her workplace, which most people wave off as a tragic result of her story, thoroughly discussed between 46- no, 47, Janet had come back from her vacation, out of 52 employees, as is customary in office buildings. The HR Department might as well keep tabs on the most fucked up employees, bless their discretion. 

Afterall, the skeletons in her closet might not do much to discredit her already damaged reputation. And by skeletons, she means someone’s very private thoughts, carefully written down in neat handwriting, hidden inside her literal closet, because that’s where she places them just in case someone comes by and sees her new leatherbound notebook collection. The paranoia is almost enough to make the woman change the locks on her front door just in case the landlord drops by for a random visit - he doesn’t.

To be extra safe, she tells herself to wait for more information, probing the ends of the internet (she hasn’t forgotten about their idiocy!) for any posts talking about missing diaries or suspicious short asian women loitering around. There’s even an anxious attempt of driving around the supposedly abandoned house, even though it seems as empty as ever, that provides no results.

On the following weekend there’s a lull that drapes itself over the apartment, the kind that comes when there’s absolutely nothing at all to do. The curtains ebb and flow with the gentle wind and it seems like a perfect day for a picnic, one that just begs for taking a walk afterwards to digest the inhuman amounts of food they would have packed for it. Wendy’s mind gets pulled away from the sad thought as a bird flies over and perches itself on the balcony, his head curiously moving around as he jumps across the surface. It turns and looks directly at the woman on the couch, neither breaking eye contact as all the sounds around them are drowned out. Suddenly it feels like time has slowed down, an imaginary temperature drop surrounds Wendy, whose attention is so focused on the animal a few feet away that her peripheral vision turns grainy. An eerie feeling takes over and she shivers, not daring to blink or breathe in order not to disturb what’s going on. The spell breaks with a cute peep from another bird that flies by and they both go away on their merry way.

She sighs. Well, seems like as good a day as any to check out volume 3, since she gets to choose what she’ll do.

Just as the previous times, there’s a huge amount of care in her movements picking up the diary and settling into the couch. The apprehension makes itself known as she imagines one of those yelling letters in Harry Potter accusing her of theft. She takes a deep breath and opens the first page, once more finding no date or name (thankfully no screams either), which isn’t surprising. It’s what comes next that has her dropping the book on the floor: “ _The meeting was awful..._ ” . she scrambles to pick it up again, hissing as her knees hit the floor, which seems to be a recurring theme with these diaries. But it’s in english. It’s written in a language she can understand. It’s the first time Wendy feels like crying about english since AP Literature in highschool with Mr. Lanning and his stupidly high standards for poetry analysis. She shakes her head after a shudder and scans the next sentences, even if the entry is somewhat short.

“ _...who thought it was a good idea to have the whole group get together at Taemin’s place? Everything there is so dark and leathery, my brain can still reproduce the squeaky sounds it was submitted to for the entire night. God knows how many years it’s been and I still don’t have any tolerance to alcohol, maybe my metabolism doesn’t allow me to drink after all. But I just want to say I learned this new expression in english that goes ‘what a joy’. I HAVE to let Joy know her name is dumb, can’t believe she picked this._ ”

It’s simple, it’s silly, it’s...about a teenager? Wendy furrows her brow, only discarding that idea when she reads the passage that talks about years of drinking again. She shuts the book and closes her eyes, a smile involuntarily forming on her face. What matters is that it’s in english and there’s nothing else she wants to do other than reading. 

The woman settles more comfortably on the couch and grabs the journal, only a small opening for her to read the next entry so the spine won’t be damaged, as if the secrets would spill out if anything happened to it. She flips to the next page excited to learn more about the owner of the diaries.

“ _I haven’t been painting lately, I guess inspiration has yet to strike me and turn me into a genius with a whole museum wing dedicated to me. Which sucks, by the way, having to slowly work on skills instead of just instantly being better at them. I’ve been working on a new signature since there’s nothing I want to draw, that counts as practice, right? I’ll say it does and pat myself on the back for all the hard work. Things are tiring enough as they are._ ”

Paintings and drawings. This must be the person who has done all the artwork back at the house, which makes sense considering that’s where they lived. Wendy shakes her head, berating herself for not connecting things earlier, the quick excuse of being tired slipping easily out of her own mental dialogue. She sure has been tired for the past few months and it’s simple to just pile on the lies to whatever coworker or friend that asks about her wellbeing. There are people that care about her, but things haven’t really been the same and it’s clear that everyone is starting to think she’s losing her grip on reality. Obsessing with Seulgi’s whereabouts has turned her living room into a criminal investigation tv show set, all that she’s missing is the body parts. That thought alone is enough to make sure some of the notes are organized during the next cleaning day.

Still, sleep doesn’t come easily that night, much like the previous weeks, with a bed too empty no matter how many pillows are added. Wendy still sticks to her side, habit kicking in before she can consider occupying more space. Her stomach is burning, but she doesn’t get up to get anything for it, not water, not medicine. It’s a weird thought, but it feels like she deserves it, deserves some punishment for somehow driving her girlfriend away, for not finding out what is happening, for being in their house by herself. It’s a welcomed sensation because it means there’s something besides anger in her body, so she latches onto it and focuses hard on the negative thoughts, making the pain grow instantly in response. Her mouth tastes bitter, her hands curl holding the sheets and she falls asleep feeling some fucked up cathartic relief. It’s the best she can manage for now.

_____________________________________________________________________

If staring intently and focusing all of your energy into an object could awaken super powers such as telekinesis, Wendy was sure she’d throw a bike at the asshole who keeps leaving his dog’s poop right in front of her building’s entrance. Unfortunately, by now she’s sure it doesn’t make any difference because she has been looking at the clock on the corner of her computer screen attentively for the past two hours with no melting, floating and/or short circuiting going around. It just keeps ever so slowly changing the seconds and the minutes and the hours no matter how much she wills it to move faster. No one at her workplace is brave enough to interrupt, the sheer intensity emanating from her like an aura keeps even the most absentminded interns away. Not a second after it hits 5pm, she gets up from her chair with her bag and umbrella, marching out of the office with some curious eyes inconspicuously following her small and sure steps from between document folders and monitors.

“ _I am become LIFE, the BRINGER of worlds!_

__

__

_Turns out I have quite the green thumb! The seeds I chose at the market are growing splendidly and I can’t wait to have my own little garden. The shop lady said I could eventually change them into bigger pots so they’ll have lots of room to grow! I’ll try to find out how to do it without hurting the poor little things, I might have to call someone to make sure I don’t accidentally rip them in half doing the move._ ”

A loud laughter ripples through the small room, faintly echoing on the walls. Wendy can just imagine this person being so worried that they’ll destroy the plants they might have paid someone to do the repotting. She’s currently curled into her little spot on the corner of the couch, tucked into the sofa throw that is almost too small for her, with shivers occasionally making their way through her body and making her shake hard. The exhaustion taking over her body is enough to keep her from getting up and digging out an actual blanket from the closet, so it’s obvious that the first instinct is to ask for Seulgi to get one for her. The words die out right after she opens her mouth, tucking her chin into the fabric and knitting her brows. She turns to the next page.

“ _I’ve been feeling a little out of place lately, like I haven’t been doing what I was supposed to in life. Well, that boat has sailed. But as far as a plan B can go, I’d say I did pretty well in pursuing a college degree, since it’s the easiest way of making money these days or so I’ve heard. Sometimes I wish I could have invested in stocks when big companies were growing, not having to worry about what’s going on now and how I should spend my money. At least technology is pretty good these days._ ”

It’s the most relatable part of the diary so far, it seems like an adult struggling through life like pretty much everyone Wendy knows, herself included. She’s in a comfortable position in the company she works at after a few years with them, but it’s not like she has a deep passion for paperwork and bureaucracy. Considering the struggles they have in common, she assumes the diary’s owner and her are probably close in age, or at least that’s what she tells herself in order to create some connection. 

There’s another sentence written a few lines afterwards, a clear division in topics.

“ _Also, I had a great idea and I’m having a shirt made that says ‘No bark, all bite’. Joy said wearing it might get me in trouble, but I bet she also wants one._ ”

That’s...a very big coincidence. Wendy frowns and gets up, walking to the bedroom so she can open the closet. She goes through a few drawers in a hurry, not wanting to mess the clothes so carefully folded any more than she has done whenever she steals a comfy sweater. Her search comes up empty, so she rolls up her sleeves and sits on the floor, ready to get down to business. On the fourth pile of clothes she pulls, just between the swimsuits and the gym clothes, she finds what she’s looking for. A black shirt that smells like it’s been hidden away for a few months with the words “No bark, all bite” printed on the center.

She can’t say she’s not surprised, but it’s simple to gather that once the model is done it’s obvious that other people might take a liking to it and buy it as well. The diary author could have an Etsy shop where they share their designs and Seulgi is pretty into dumb jokes, so that’s the connection. Wendy sighs and remembers that this link she’s trying so hard to get is likely not even a thing, so many people have the exact same clothes as her and she has never had the impulse to go to them and ask if they bought it from this or that shop. Thrifting is also a thing! Or not! Whatever.

She shoves everything back into the drawers, putting a bit more strength in order to make the now jumbled mess fit when she closes the doors.

Later into the night, when Wendy is tossing and turning on her bed once more, curiosity gets the best of her and she reaches for her phone. The bright light momentarily blinds her, turning her eyes into small slits as she finds the right letters to type, and she comes up empty on her search of any Etsy stores that sell the shirt. She huffs and blocks the phone, her expression shifting into a large smile when she sees the lock screen. A picture of Seulgi and her with their faces squished together pretty close to the camera, an impromptu selfie they had taken after seeing a really cute dog on the street and playfully fighting to take the most space in the frame with the animal. They’re the only ones who know the story since there’s only a dog ear on the corner of the picture because their bodies blocked everything else.

The woman unlocks the phone and opens the wallpaper options, clicking on a default picture of a flower. A confirmation message pops up on the screen and her fingers hover over it, a sinking feeling on her chest causing her to bite on her lip and wait. Wait for any sign, anything other than the dead silence engulfing the room, and she strains her ears to pick up on cars passing by on the street, drunkards yelling, something as simple as a person’s laughter as they walk with their friends. Her heart drums against her chest, she shuts her eyes and starts a countdown. Five, four, three- the taste of blood fills her mouth, Wendy instantly reaches for her lips when she feels the burning. The woman locks the phone again and stares at the two of them, reveling in the satisfaction of having that memory in front of her. 

She wakes up with her phone clutched in her hands, its imprint leaving marks across her fingers and palm that don’t come off for a few hours, no matter how much she rubs on them.

_____________________________________________________________________

Life is full of surprises. Fifteen years ago Wendy would have dropped everything to delve deeper into someone’s life. Hours poured into researching all about her favorite actresses and singers, memorizing random trivia facts and printing pictures to hide inside her notebooks. In college she’d claim it was nothing but her gay awakening in a not very welcoming setting, but years later, far from the need to impress people with an aloof persona, she realized it could be both that and a genuine investment in a hobby, eventually no longer feeling the need to suppress the desire to learn more about whatever, or whoever, caught her attention. To no one’s surprise, doing so was just as fun as her young self thought and the routine of watching behind the scenes videos of her favorite shows and movies went on, turning her into a first pick during trivia nights. Recently it had dwindled down to quick searches on her smartphone or a small video before bed, a reluctance in accepting there was simply not enough time amidst endless work hours and a social life to maintain a hobby like teenagers can. Or maybe there is.

It’s two a.m on a tuesday, four hours before her first alarm to get ready for work, when Wendy sees a tear landing on the page she’s on. She shuts the diary, holding it close to her chest so there’s no damage to it, and leans her head back against the couch sniffling.

If she were in a movie, this would be the main character’s turning point, the moment she realizes how she’s a bit too invested in the diaries and how life will continue to improve with her newfound resolution to move on and find happiness. Cue montage with self-care activities, meeting friends, having fun and all the other things people do when they’re not obsessing over whatever is going monumentally wrong in their lives. Wendy, on the other hand, stubbornly refuses to put the book down as she awkwardly wipes her tears with her free hand. She needs to know more, she needs this. 

This is something, she reasons, it’s not drowning in apathy nor yelling into her pillow, it’s actual feelings that she gets to experience by immersing herself in someone else’s life. When you’re at the bottom of the well, there might not be energy for you to look up and grab a rope, the mere effort to do sounds so depleting it becomes burdensome. And then there’s also the guilt, guilt for not trying harder, for not pushing to the brink of exhaustion - if there even is a stage more draining than this -, for apparently sitting there when others claim there are so many alternatives, they just seem unachievable. 

Depending so heavily on a distraction might not be the healthiest option when dealing with grief - grief? -, but it’s the best she can manage right now. And that’s okay. It also beats having to hear some dumb manchild therapist saying she needs to accept change and move on. Fucking Johnny, that’s not even a professional sounding name, he shouldn’t be giving advice to people. Wendy unfurls her fingers and tries relaxing her shoulders, tension gathering on her body just thinking about it. She gets up from the couch to brush her teeth before heading for bed, she’s done enough reading for the day.

Words fail her when she’s asked by her boss how she is doing during lunch the following day. She’s sure the dark circles under her eyes are very prominent - she doesn’t know for sure how much since it’s been a while since she has last looked in the mirror - and practically beg for people to ask about her wellbeing, so the strenuous smile she puts on as a response does nothing but further confuse the well meaning superior. They don’t insist when Wendy returns to her food, picking at the convenience store bought meal with disinterest.

“ _I have the worst block right now, there’s not a single painting or drawing coming out like I want them to. I can envision the idea I want to get across, but then I grab my pencil and...nothing. I’m starting to get pretty tired, I just want to make things!_ ”

Wendy twirls a strand of her hair. Not one to belong to the art world, none of her personal hobbies demand creativity, just a hefty amount of instruction following. Not to say she can’t feel empathy towards the writer, she has seen Seulgi experience her fair share of frustration while trying to come up with a new piece. 

She stretches her arms and turns to the next page, only to see there’s no entry, officially marking another volume down. Wendy almost misses the signature on the bottom as she goes to close the book, her brain catching up with the small black spot on the corner of the last page. There, in gorgeous handwriting, there’s a single “K.” and just seeing it makes her heart beat faster. It’s somehow delicate and intricate at the same time, as if the person had put in lots of work in discovering a brand for themselves. The woman chuckles as she imagines whoever K is drawing the same letter on pieces of paper for hours and hours on end. The author feels closer to her with each entry, narrating their own story only somewhat aware of the ramifications as she watches it unfurl from the sidelines.

The short woman wastes no time in getting the next volume, dying to find out more about the writer. She gets up to pee and while washing her hands her stomach growls loudly in hunger, making her realize it had been a few hours since her last meal. She rushes to the kitchen and grabs a banana, quickly peeling it and shoving half in her mouth, instantly regretting her haste as she spits the mush into the sink and makes faces while grabbing a cup of water. Wendy can’t remember buying fruits, but she knows the peel should be at least brown-ish for it to go bad or something like that. Maybe these are some new genetic mutations that make bananas go bad on the inside alone, tricking buyers into getting old bananas. Damn the big companies. She settles for some cookies and returns to her little couch bundle, opening the new diary eagerly.

“ _I saw this girl on the street and I might have kept looking at her because we went down the same street and I can just hear Joy telling me how creepy that sounds, but she is SO good looking, I can’t believe I didn’t talk to her when she was right there in front of me. Consider this a promise: if I meet her again, I WILL talk to her!_ ”

Wendy smiles in recognition, it’s not always easy talking to people and there’s the whole women loving wo-. She pauses mid-thought, realizing not once have the diaries mentioned a gender, she has just been projecting onto this person and imagining them as a woman because that’s what she wants them to be. Well, it’ll still be a fun read regardless, even if Wendy hopes it’s a gay one.

“ _I didn’t talk to her. I think she lives nearby because we keep running into each other at the coffee shop. Well, more like I watch her as she orders her coffee and leaves for what is probably work? I didn’t go that far, I’m not that weird. She doesn’t know I’m watching (I think), so I guess there’s a plus side to my skills of blending in with the crowd._ ”

The short woman thinks back on this feeling, the rush you get when meeting someone for the first time. The diary owner isn’t exactly meeting, but based on how they talk it’s very likely a detailed entry is on its future, maybe describing how they get together, the elaborate cliche proposal, married life and so on. Maybe it’ll end after something good happens, like life getting busy after a work promotion and next thing you know they have gone months without writing anything else, making it ambiguous enough for Wendy to imagine how happily ever after the mystery couple got to be. There’s no reason for people who spend so long together to go on without their partner well into their age, so she promises herself that if the diaries even hint at either person getting sick, she’ll stop reading. The pledge sounds untrue the moment she finishes the mental agreement.

_____________________________________________________________________

The hot chocolate burns Wendy’s tongue when she risks taking the first sip. She can almost hear Seulgi laughing and telling her to slow down, which brings a smile to her face, so she allows her imagination to fully envelop her with this warmth, closing her eyes and picturing the other woman smiling in front of her. It’s not much, but it’s the least she can do.

“ _I’m gonna say it… I know this is weird for some people (because they’re crazy), but I really miss the 80s. The music was sooo goood, it’s like there was something in people’s food! Well, there probably was, too many funerals because of drugs and alcohol. The aesthetics were also a bit tacky, but you could make it work, it’s coming back in style!_ ”

A shudder runs by Wendy’s spine as she imagines herself with poofy hair, a sideways ponytail and a windbreaker. She’s thankful for not actually having experienced the era.

“ _I saw the girl again! I heard the barista yell her name and I know that validates Joy’s theory that I’m a creep, but in my defense it was loud and I was right next to them. ANYWAY, her name is Wendy and I’m going to try to find an opening next time. Seulgi, you can do it!_ ”

Wendy instantly drops her smile. Seulgi. It says Seulgi in the entry, the diary she’s reading about this person is about Seulgi. Seulgi doesn’t seem like an actual word anymore, not that it is a word, it’s a name. It’s her girlfriend’s name, same girlfriend who is missing and apparently has diaries where she talks about her life and she’s reading them and- it’s Seulgi. Wendy struggles to breathe properly, trying her best to focus on the words in front of her. It says Wendy right there, that’s her name and people call it out when ordering coffee and Seulgi is talking about seeing her for the first time, they met at Rosy Cafe. The woman scrambles to flip to the next page, slightly crumpling its corner due to her rush, which makes her go back to try to fix it, brows furrowed in a mixture of guilt and concentration. She gets to the next entry and starts reading.

“ _Found out people say ‘oh joy’ in a sarcastic tone to express their distaste and that’s the only way I’m greeting Joy from now on._ ”

That’s... That’s obnoxious, but it isn’t what she’s looking for, so she turns the page once more.

“ _Today she dropped a paper after ordering and I used that as an excuse to talk to her, which seemed like a foolproof plan! I said ‘Wendy, you dropped this’ and she just stared at me with so much confusion on her face I thought I had said something else entirely. She just shook her head and left. The paper wasn’t even hers, it was a menu that had fallen on the floor…_ ”

Wendy lets out a cackle so loud it even startles herself, rushing to clamp her mouth with her hand before her neighbor complains. She thinks back to this day and how this random woman, who she thought was a worker at her usual place, tried giving her the coffee shop menu even though she had received her order already. Everytime they talk about this first meeting Seulgi is always embarrassed, hiding her blushing cheeks behind her hands while a shy smile spreads between her fingers, wondering how in the world she managed to utter a single word to Wendy ever again. It’s such a sweet memory, one of Wendy’s favorites, that she made sure to steal one of the small coffee shop pamphlets to keep in her memory box.

But this means it really is her Seulgi. She’s reading Seulgi’s diaries and the little connections that had seemed far-fetched now make more sense, the paintings, the signature being “K” stands for Kang, the shirt is obviously her own design. Wendy puts the diary aside and rubs her eyes in disbelief, pinching her own thigh harshly, just on the off chance that she’s dreaming or that she’ll wake up at a psychiatric hospital because she finally had a mental breakdown, but nothing happens. She’s still in her apartment staring at the diary in front of her, knitting her brows as she pulls it almost close enough to touch her nose. The handwriting looks nothing at all with the one she’s used to seeing on tiny love notes, post-its, letters and whatever else she has received from Seulgi during their relationship. It’s still their story, she’s sure it’s her girlfriend writing this. The groan she lets out is now loud enough to make her neighbor bang against the wall, which she gladly responds by hitting it back.

She takes a moment to calm herself down, these are her girlfriend’s thoughts and personal stories, things she might not want to share with anyone for now. They can also be the missing piece in her investigation in order to find out where Seulgi is, whether she’s in danger or maybe even find clues that can help Wendy. She knows her girlfriend more than anyone else in the world and there’s no way in hell she could ever disappear like that unless something had happened.

Wendy gulps and opens the diary again, resolute in her decision to keep reading only so she knows what she can do. She can apologize in the future for breaching her girlfriend’s privacy, but right now she needs to know what’s going on. Afterall, this story is hers as much as it is Seulgi’s, new paths being carved with each decision she makes.

“ _I TALKED TO HER!!! Her name is indeed Wendy! It’s so so pretty (like her), I’m the luckiest being to have ever lived._ "

Maybe it’ll take a while for her to get to any actually relevant information. 

This time Wendy can feel her cheeks burning, the idea that someone this gorgeous was so excited to be able to talk to her is utterly crazy. It’s always been clear that the heart eyes were there from day one, but it evokes such a good feeling being able to read about Seulgi’s reaction as the events unfolded, before any relationship had formed between them.

“ _I met her again at the coffee place and got to say hi, she was pretty shy at first and it took me a while to regain my confidence, but she laughed at the dumb jokes I made, so I’m counting that as a win. She had to leave for work, so it didn’t last long, but I’m thinking of asking her out next time!_

__

__

_Taemin wants me to go to another meeting, I miss his dorky ass._ ”

Taemin? That’s not a name Wendy remembers hearing other than in the diary, but it can be because her head is all over the place. She can’t say she knows what these meetings are, though she likes to think she’d remember recurring meetings to a friend’s place or wherever they go on. Though now that she’s aware this is related to her girlfriend’s life her interest in the people mentioned is through the roof, she needs more information to find out who they are, perhaps even get some information from them.

Unfortunately, googling someone’s first name doesn’t really help unless they’re a celebrity, which doesn’t seem to be the case, so the woman waits for any other references to pop up throughout the diaries. Landmarks, addresses, phone numbers, whatever helps her get their contacts since none of Seulgi’s friends she knows has been mentioned during the diaries she has read so far. Maybe an unheard fall out between friends is coming up.

_____________________________________________________________________

“ _I saw someone that looked just like Jackson today as I got on the subway, but when I tried making sure I got pushed by the sea of people on their way in. It can’t have been him though, they wouldn’t know. I’m probably just tired or hungry or something._ ”

‘Jackson. No other mentions, a possible ex, someone after her?’ Wendy starts carrying a small notepad along with whatever the current diary is, making small annotations trying to link the new names and who they are mentioned with, the possibility of reaching a friend group in common smaller every time since Wendy knows Seulgi isn’t writing a book and there’s no need to introduce people. The mentions are sparse and few, as if her girlfriend had been trying to focus on nicer topics for her own sake and whatever managed to slip through the cracks only happened due to stress or being unable to bear it. 

“ _This is now a place for me to gush, no better way to keep track of things than using a diary, right? Wendy asked me to sit with her at her table at Rosy, she said she had a bit more time that day. I was a nervous wreck, but I managed to get her number somehow?? We sent each other silly messages throughout the day and there was even a good night text, I feel like I’m getting places!_ ”

The woman flips to the next page and pouts within the first sentence.

“ _I’m getting nowhere, she hasn’t answered me in four days, what did I do? I don’t remember saying anything offensive, I’ve reread every interaction so far and it all seems pretty bland? Maybe the jokes? Joy told me not to tell them, but she laughed at all the puns! Oh god._ ”

She remembers being super busy during that week with her former boss just piling on demands and asking for overtime. All she had afforded to do when getting home was to eat, shower and sleep, while Seulgi freaked out about possibly ruining things.

“ _We went on a date. Yes, this is quite the timeskip, but all the gushing has been happening in real life because I asked her out and she said yes! The weather has been crazy good, so we had a walk around the park and ate ice cream afterwards, we got along so well. I don’t wanna jinx it because I’m terrified something will happen, but this… this is good, I feel happy._ ”

Their first date still makes Wendy blush, a classic whole day outing that happens so often between women. They couldn’t stop talking, having clicked perfectly with their well timed quips and similar sense of humor, the kind of banter that flows so easily it seems unreal. It felt like they were able to complement one another in an elaborate dance where both were willing to lead and be led when necessary. They’ve always had the connection you read or watch in really cheesy media, the one that warms your heart even if you’re a mere observer, it made their friends jokingly threaten them a few times.

She reads about their first kiss, chest tightening with the memory of feeling so nervous over a simple action as they both stood by her building’s entrance taken over by the inability to make eye contact and giggles, lots of them. Butterflies so intense the whole scene was akin to her school days, complete with the foot shuffling and reddened cheeks in order to gather the necessary courage to lean over. Unlike her teenagehood’s awkward encounters, Wendy’s dates with Seulgi had proven to be nothing short of incredible, far from the inexperienced movements and weird magazine based techniques one would mimic growing up.

They were a good match in every aspect there is- are. They are. Wendy corrects herself and shakes her head, an awkward smile coming out as she frowns momentarily. They still are a good match, bringing out the best in each other as they trudge through life just like they have for the past years. She just wishes Seulgi came back to her, to the life they built together. That night, she sleeps hugging the diary instead of her phone, a warmth seeping through her body with the idea of feeling this connected to her girlfriend after long months by herself.

The next day, when Jieun sends one of her checkup messages by sharing a funny picture of a cat and drops the ever so casual invitation for coffee to catch up on their lives, Wendy actually thinks twice before rejecting. She considers it growth and pats herself on the back for trying. They both understand there’s no hard feelings between them and the younger woman is grateful to know she can turn to someone if she feels like she can’t deal anymore.

Clicks and clacks echo through the apartment as Wendy inputs her most recent news about Seulgi’s disappearance on her laptop. The file is bigger than a few weeks ago, though the speed in which it increases has slowed down to a crawl. This time there’s a grand total of one blog post by someone who claims aliens are responsible, kidnapping people for their human body research. She feels silly copying information from someone who thinks martians have infiltrated the FBI, but the idea of not doing it feels even worse, as if she had given up on investigating, given up on them. On Seulgi.

And a slump can happen to anyone, she knows it’s a temporary setback that happens in investigations, television shows have taught her as much, and thanks to the diaries, the lull is not as awful as before. Even her anger feels less intense, giving way for this disassociated state of existence that nudges her forward on a daily basis. The mental exhaustion that comes with willingly refraining the frustration to spill out through curse words and groans when the simplest things happen, like dropping her pen while twirling it absentmindedly as she reads her company’s weekly reports, is definitely not missed. 

On the contrary, she feels more like a narrator to her own life, watching with a tinge of nervousness as the consequences reveal themselves and the inertia grows stronger. Can she live through a story she’s part of? The opportunity to experience everything again, a lead character in a play she’s aware is destined for doom, unable to change the set path in the sickest display of fate or whatever illusion of control she holds.

She chooses to read, that is her story.

_____________________________________________________________________

It becomes less about herself and more about the diaries, all the joys of reading your memories without the need to actually write them down. Seeing everything through Seulgi’s point of view is a terrific bonus that reminds Wendy once more how they are mostly in sync in their actions and reactions, as if they were one. She uses all of her free time to get lost in this very real world in which the worst things written down revolve about silly arguments and the occasional confusing entry, happy to let herself be drowned in her girlfriend’s perspective that seems so in tune with her own. Eagerness to get home translates to, in work gossip language, someone new in Wendy’s life and she can’t bother herself to dismiss their claims, it’s practically Seulgi herself waiting for her, her words and stories. Their stories.

“ _I need to tell Wendy I’m allergic to her seasoning. She’s such a good chef, but I can’t keep getting sick everytime I eat her food, she’s getting suspicious of all the bathroom trips and I feel bad about it._ ”

Wendy laughs at the memory, Seulgi had pulled her by the hands to have a talk on the couch with the most somber look on her face she had ever seen, she thought the other girl was about to break up with her and started crying before anything was said. The relief they felt on that night made the two of them realize how much they wanted to be together.

“ _I won’t get into details because I know you’re reading this, Joy, but I spent the night at Wendy’s and WOW. This is the most alive I’ve felt in quite a while, that’s all I’m gonna say._ ”

There’s another comment above Joy’s name in a different handwriting that goes “ _I would never!_ ” which makes Wendy imagine if she has ever met this woman who seems to bicker so much with her girlfriend. She knows a few of Seulgi’s friends from college and work, but none of them seem as close as this one. The fact that Joy had access to the diaries and the way they interact, ever so eager to find ways to make fun of each other, makes the relationship almost sibling-like, though there has never been any mention of a sister. And Joy had been around back when they started dating, confusing Wendy further about the woman’s identity.

“ _The cat thing was...peculiar. Can’t say it wasn’t interesting, though the tail keeps getting in the way so I still need a bit of time to get used to it. I know I took quite a while to try it out, but honestly? I was scared of what could happen, whether I’d be judged or not by the rest of the group, if I have what it takes. Well, this way I can fully be a scaredy cat HAH! Just kidding. (who says just kidding to their diary?). Anyway, I did it and I’ll probably do it again in order to get better at it so I can actually enjoy the experience._ ”

Wendy reads the entry a few times in confusion, all she can think of is that Seulgi doesn’t own a cat as far as she knows. But she also didn’t know about the old house, so there’s that. Still, the whole ‘getting used to a tail’ part does set off a particularly intriguing journey of google searches that eventually leads to a total browser history wipe and a single conclusion: Seulgi is a furry. Not only that, she’s been trying out the activities in a group setting and was, in all likelihood, too ashamed to talk about it with Wendy. A sense of embarrassment takes over the woman nestled on the couch, cheeks burning as she sinks into the pillows and covers her face with the diary. She feels both inadequate and sorry to think Seulgi felt like she had to look for other people in order not to feel judged, ashamed or whatever it was that kept her from sharing this. Wendy had never considered this an option, but she makes a promise to herself that when Seulgi is back she’ll buy some items for them to try out together.

It does start getting a bit more out of touch with Wendy’s own experience at a certain point. There are still lengthy descriptions of surprise parties and their plannings, including guest lists and possible themes, the anniversaries they share trying to one up each other every year, plane tickets carefully tucked between pages with not much details due to all the walking and sightseeing. It’s easy to feel the emotion, there’s no way to deny that, but the glimpses she gets of dates and events are more and more apart in time, as if Seulgi had slowly given up on updating out of what she hopes is laziness.

Few figure keys make an appearance again. Taemin and his meetings only show up a couple more times, as does Joy and their relentless bickering. The one entry that gives Wendy the shudders is the one mentioning a very enigmatic person that had only been featured once.

“ _I saw Jackson, he was standing in front of the office for a few hours looking directly at my window._ ”

This is the entry that causes the most disturbance in both Seulgi and Wendy. The woman reading the diaries starts imagining how this man looks like, if she has ever seen him somewhere, if he’s related to her girlfriend’s disappearance. Whereas Seulgi’s reaction is adding more puzzling entries, which vexes the shorter woman immensely with the sheer impotence she feels. There’s only one thing for her to do, she goes on.

“ _I was able to transfer out the money without anyone knowing. I don’t think it can be traced to me, but I pray to every higher being in existence that it can’t be traced to Wendy, I can’t do this to her._ ”

Nowadays, Wendy goes through the pages under every guise of free time she can muster, no matter what it is about. Most of the time, she can either jot something down or reminisce, happy to be able to delve deeper into this world, but after reading this particular entry, she chooses to file the information for later, not being in the right mindset to process just what in the world transferring out money in secret can mean. Or where the money comes from. She shakes her head and calmly closes the book, giving herself a well deserved break from all the thinking she will be doing later on when she finally absorbs everything.

The so-called processing happens with Wendy cooking 3 different types of lasagna on a single afternoon, music playing so loudly the next door neighbor knocks on her wall to get her to turn it off. They have an awkward meeting afterwards as she gifts them one of the meals while looking disheveled and, after noticing them staring at her face, quickly blames the tear tracks marking her face on cutting onions for all her cooking. And allergies.

_____________________________________________________________________

Wendy can see there are not many entries left, she skims the diary as soon as she picks up the last volume, her heart hammering against her chest with the idea of losing another part of Seulgi. There is no news from the police or from friends, even the weird conspiracy blog moves on to another case involving meteor showers and their relation to a growing population of hornets in Guatemala.

The days blending into one another don’t help much with the feeling that settles inside her, the small voice in the back of her head that tells her this is it. Wendy knows she needs to be hopeful, she knows Seulgi is still her girlfriend and that something is going on, she just needs to find out a bit more, to understand the final entries that are the final piece to the puzzle so that they can return to what they were. 

“ _Saint Grace  
Ridgeview  
Griffin  
Freeman  
Memorial  
Maple Valley_”

The words make up a full entry on the notebook, some of them crossed out, which gets a bit confusing. Yet there is something vaguely familiar about them, Wendy can recognize those names even if she’s not sure exactly what they are. She bites her nails absentmindedly when realization surges, they’re all medical centers, they had once gone to both Griffin and Maple Valley hospitals after Jieun had been in an accident. And that’s when things finally begin to add up, even if Wendy doesn’t want to accept the truth staring right at her. Seulgi has always been a somewhat secretive person, not really one to talk about her family issues other than them not being around. She has - or better yet, had - a large sum of money that was stashed away up until her freak accident and disappearance and now there’s this list of clinics written down. It’s clear now that Seulgi was having issues with drugs.

There had always been something about her eyes that looked different, sort of bloodshot, but Wendy had never been able to put her finger on it exactly. It makes sense now, the clumsiness, the forgetfulness, she probably needs to go to different places in order to get new doctors and ask for prescriptions. Right under her nose the whole time. She feels so dumb, a fool for so many years over a serious issue that she can help, that she-No.

There is simmer and there is bubbling and the dormant feelings that had been carefully set at rest through her own volition surge back. Wendy breathes deeply through her nose, eyes shut so tightly she can see spots on her eyelids dancing. 

She feels the anger building up, the bile rising in the back of her throat bringing an awful taste to her mouth. How much more will she find out about her girlfriend? No one needs to share everything, of course she knows that, but what exactly is this fucked up relationship they seemed to have? It’s one thing not to share a kink, you have to ease into things you’re discovering about yourself and all that, but to keep something this big to herself? Wendy starts pacing around the living room, the carpet muffling the sounds she’s making as she stomps from one side to the other. This relationship feels less real with each entry, whatever it was or wasn’t, and she scoffs at the thought of still being so attached, so dependent on whoever Seulgi pretended to be. It took her years to open up, to be emotionally available, but it seems to have been one sided.

She knows it can be hard, afterall not everyone clicks with her, an aloof persona paired with her own disinterest in creating connections keeps people at an arm’s length away. She had been used to being alone, the gossip and comments following her since highschool practically guaranteeing everyone had been too scared to get close to her, to ask her about her day, to be friends. It took her a few years of nights crying into her pillow, wondering if no one cared, to realize that there was no point in fighting against it. Things wouldn’t change and it would tire her out to try. Reestablishing herself in college took a lot of strength, but she managed to squeak a few words and landed a small group of friends. It took effort, some people didn’t bother keeping up after college, some pushed through.

The first person who cracked Wendy’s walls, contrary to what most people think, was actually Soojung, her coworker. Even if there wasn’t much response, the older woman would always make sure to say hello and offer help with work, which at first was unexpected due to expectations created by office gossip of her quiet personality - oh the irony. They had their own goofy dynamic and their interactions would be the best part of her workdays.

Wendy thinks she could have fallen for Soojung. Lots of people did, it would have been easy, she was very sweet, funny and not to mention gorgeous, but unfortunately the timing wasn’t right. Not only that, Wendy wasn’t right. Not for her. 

Her life would have been different if it had happened, Soojung probably didn’t keep diaries with a whole secret life and extra money and kinks and drugs. She also shared the news when she got a better job offer at another city a couple of years back, she didn’t just disappear. She didn’t just create a whole life together with someone and left when her stupid secrets got too much to handle on her own. She probably has a gorgeous, happy girlfriend who isn’t crying at home every single day over her fucking decisions.

Wendy opens her hands and looks at the marks caused by her nails digging into her palms. She writes a reminder on her phone to call Johnny and set up an appointment.

_____________________________________________________________________

“ _She asked for me again, I can’t do this anymore. I thought moving would make it harder for me to be found, but no matter where I go one of her bootlickers eventually finds me. Except I can’t leave this time around, I couldn’t do this to Wendy. I can honestly say I can’t recall the last time I was this happy and I know it’s because of her influence, of how much I want to improve in order to be a better person for her, for us...for myself. I spent years with so much anger inside of me over not being willing to go against what I’m asked to do, I know I have to do this._ ”

Another mysterious element to Seulgi’s life. Wendy sighs, most of the reading happening now is due to a wicked curiosity, like when there’s a huge car crash down the road yet there’s not only no effort to redirect your path, but also direct eye contact with everyone involved. Maybe a car crash is a bad example in this case, all things considered. Still, she can’t help but go on to find out just how much she can torture herself before she breaks, before she can finally understand everything and call it quits. A small part of her still expects this to be the script of a book or maybe about Seulgi’s evil twin who shares her name, her memories and...her body. 

When Wendy tells the whole ‘health clinics and mystery woman with a hold on someone’s life’ story as a book prompt she’s currently working on to a coworker, their first question is whether the woman is a drug dealer. She might as well be. It couldn’t be Joy, right?

“ _Remember to set up a dead man’s switch._ ”

A dead man’s switch? What does she mean by that? Maybe the set up is a precaution, it doesn’t necessarily mean it has happened or that she’s dead. Wendy tries reading ahead for any hint but the following pages don’t make much sense, no explanation as to what the switch can trigger and what’s going on. There hadn’t been any entries involving the two of them since an anniversary a year before the disappearance, so having no actual dates makes things worse. They can be old entries, they can be something unrelated to her life, she can have forgotten about the diary and packed them under the floorboard due to disinterest in writing down her experiences and days. There’s no way to tell whether it has been triggered, which of course makes the burning sensation on her stomach worsen. An entire old house belonging to her is also insane, but Wendy doesn’t let her mind go astray because she knows she’ll go mad if she thinks about every single aspect of Seulgi’s life that seems to have popped up throughout the diaries. The worst part of it all is that she’s still suffering, suffering over an unknown person, a two-faced asshole who lied about every part of her life.

She still turns to the next page, she needs to know. There’s only a short paragraph that seems to have been written in a hurry based on the messy handwriting.

“ _Wendy, the key will get to you, so if you ever do read this, I’m sorry. I’m sorry for everything I put you through and know that I do love you. I can’t imagine how much I’ve hurt you, but I swear I have loved you more than I could ever imagine I would be able to throughout this stupid endless suffering that is life and I’ll continue to do so until the end of my days. I promise I’ll always come home to you, if you’re willing. Please don’t forget me._ ”

Wendy flips to read the following entry, but there’s nothing else written. She checks the cover once more and the styled number, beautiful as ever, says “9”, the last volume there is.

The tears don’t stop and Wendy doesn’t bother to wipe her face. She stays on the couch, hard hiccups shaking her entire body, until she is absolutely exhausted from crying. Finally moving after a few hours, her head feels like it weighs a ton and her nose is stuffed and she doesn’t feel better like one usually does after a good cry. Wendy feels conflicted, guilty over being so quick to turn on her girlfriend after reading a few entries that might as well be old or exaggerated, but she’s alone and there’s no one to explain things to her. There’s no one to tell her she’s reading too much into it and that she’s probably wrong, that Seulgi loves her and that she’ll come back just like the diary says. That night, Wendy doesn’t bother with a shower or eating, she just pulls on the blanket over her and hugs the pillow so tightly she feels her shoulders ache with tension. 

She doesn’t go to work the next day, or the day after. Her phone sits on her bedside table out of battery. 

On the fourth day of no contact with the outside world, her good old uncooperative neighbor actually comes by to ask if everything is alright because there has been no noise from her apartment lately. The scoff Wendy lets out automatically sounds foreign, her throat itchy from being silent for so long, so she tries to fix things by settling for a tight lipped smile that looks a bit loopy. He grumbles and goes back to his own place, shutting the door harshly. The woman sighs and leans back inside to get her keys, a weight off her shoulders after the brief interaction with another person. She looks at her attire consisting of sweatpants, a hoodie and a pair of fluffy bear slippers and shrugs, heading for the grocery store down the block.

That night she charges her phone and skims through the notifications just in case there is something from Seulgi. Their last conversation still has a bunch of messages from Wendy basically going through every stage of grief there is. The woman grimaces at it and switches to another chat, carefully skipping over Jieun’s photo, and sees something from Yerim, the funny HR employee she had talked to a few times. It’s a simple ‘I got you’ with a picture attached, a vacation request form asking for seven days off due to personal reasons, complete with a poor attempt at falsifying Wendy’s signature and dated back to the first day she had skipped. It explains the lack of messages from her boss, whose signature is also on the document, bless that mysterious kind gremlin. And the fact that her superior has no idea how her handwriting looks.

The next few days aren’t as hard and Wendy makes use of her newfound, albeit minimal, energy to wash her clothes, making an extra effort to wear something of her own after showering. It helps.

On monday, the last day of her impromptu vacation, Wendy decides to cook her own lunch for the following workday. She makes something simple, not really in the mood for waiting for meat to defrost or actually putting effort into a full meal. The woman serves the white sauce pasta into a little container, finding a place in the fridge for the leftovers. There is a sense of fulfillment at doing something for herself after the whole journey during the past week, a small smile appearing on her face when she moves to the sink in order to wash the dishes.

She accidentally bangs the pan against the wall when turning too fast and instantly gets a muffled complaint from next door, causing her to cackle. Wendy leaves the pot on the sink, doubling over in laughter and clutching her stomach, tears from laughing so hard roll down her face and she can barely breathe. This is what tips the scale, her main character turnaround moment, the normalcy in having a regular night in her own house after spending so long drowning in unfamiliarity. Things finally feel like they’re going back to normal. When she finally calms down, there’s no sound coming from the other side of the wall, and she wipes her face, giving up on the dishes for now. 

"Guess I have a lot of explaining to do." A familiar voice jolts Wendy from her thoughts, her smile dropping instantly. The reaction is automatic, her heart starts beating so fast against her chest she needs to focus to hear anything else. It couldn’t be. Her knuckles turn white from the strong grip on the counter and it feels like time is going in slow motion as she turns towards the entryway, finding Seulgi leaning against the doorframe, clothes ragged and bloodied, making an effort to smirk towards Wendy as she breathes heavily, sharp canines in full display.


End file.
